LITMIR.BIZ

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said Percy Spragg much too loudly, and a playful gust sent his words streaming out over the gravestones which surrounded the abbey church. ‘I’ve only been once since breakfast.’

      Rita glared, and Ted hurried over to remove a Co-op carrier bag which was being drummed against one of the gravestones by the wind. As he bent to pick it up, another gust lifted Liz’s dress and revealed an achingly tempting knee. He looked away hastily.

      ‘Right, everybody,’ said Nigel Thick, the carefully classless young photographer from Marwoods of Moor Street. ‘We’re all set. Let’s have the happy couple.’

      There was a murmur of conversation and excitement, a communal release from tension like an echo of a distant mass orgasm, as the guests found that they had a definite role to play once more. They were watchers, admirers, murmurers of ‘aaaah!’ at appropriate moments. The uneasy knots broke up and reformed in a homogeneous mass. Except for Elvis Simcock, who prowled on the edges looking cynical, as befitted a young man who had studied the great philosophers and knew how weak-minded mass sentimentality is.

      Paul and Jenny stood framed against the magnificent West Doorway of the old abbey church. A low-flying military aircraft struck a discordant note.

      ‘I feel awful,’ whispered Jenny, smiling rather desperately.

      ‘Why?’ whispered her husband of ten minutes.

      ‘Right! Big smiles! Radiance pouring from every pore!’ commanded the classless Nigel Thick. He thought that the taking of wedding photos was beneath him, but he was clever enough not to show this. He came out with all the right words, delivered with automated enthusiasm.

      Radiance poured somewhat stickily from every pore, and froze on the cool breeze.

      ‘Great! Terrific!’ lied Nigel Thick.

      ‘Wearing white,’ whispered Jenny, free to answer Paul’s question at last. ‘Hypocrisy’s the national disease, and we’ve started to build our marriage on hypocritical foundations.’

      ‘Jenny!’ whispered Paul.

      ‘OK,’ said the young photographer classlessly. ‘Now a nice dreamy one. Two lovebirds gazing into each other’s eyes.’

      Two extremely embarrassed and shy lovebirds gazed into each other’s eyes.

      ‘Aaaaah!’ went the uncles and aunts and cousins.

      ‘Great!’ said Nigel Thick, who intended to change his name to Barry Precious and become famous. ‘Tremendous. Fabulous.’

      ‘The cost of my dress could feed an African family for twenty years,’ whispered Jenny.

      ‘Jenny! Forget all that just for today,’ whispered Paul.

      ‘OK,’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Now a real sexy one.’

      The happy couple made a brave stab at a real sexy one, and Jenny blushed prettily.

      ‘Nice!’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Very nice.’ Nice was the least complimentary of all his adjectives. He only used it when he meant ‘Really awful!’ but the massed ranks of the guests didn’t seem to feel that it was awful. Another satisfied communal ‘Aaaah!’ drifted away across the town’s jumbled-up skyline towards the foetid River Gadd.

      ‘If our child grows up selfish and deceitful, it’ll be our fault,’ said Jenny. She didn’t need to whisper, as a police siren was blaring.

      ‘Jenny!’ said Paul.

      ‘OK,’ shouted Nigel Thick, in competition with the siren. ‘Let’s go for something a bit more informal. Right? OK.’

      ‘Is that all the man I’ve committed myself to for life can say – “Jenny!”?’ said Jenny.

      ‘Jenny!’

      Jenny laughed and gave Paul a quick, spontaneous kiss. She had almost forgotten the watching throng.

      ‘Good,’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Great. Terrific. Fantabulous.’

      ‘“Committed for life!”’ whispered Paul, as the siren faded into the western suburbs. ‘It sounds like a prison sentence.’

      ‘Oh Paul, you don’t think that, do you?’

      ‘No! Love! ’Course I don’t.’

      They kissed.

      ‘Aaaah!’ went the crowd.

      ‘Ugh!’ went the cynical Elvis Simcock.

      ‘Very good!’ went the classless Nigel Thick. ‘Terrific! Nice one! Tremendous!’

      Jenny and Paul disengaged in some confusion, as self-consciousness returned.

      ‘OK,’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Happy couple out. Four proud parents in.’ One day these people would have coffee-table books of his photographs. His mother still called them his ‘snaps’. He was sure she did it deliberately.

      The four proud parents took up their positions, Simcocks together, Rodenhursts together.

      ‘Anything you ever want in the ironmongery line, Laurence,’ said Ted. ‘Custom-built door knockers, personalized coal scuttles, you name it, I’ll give it at cost price.’

      ‘Well well!’ said Laurence. ‘It seems that this union can be of great benefit to our family, Liz!’

      Liz and Ted both gave Laurence sharp looks. Rita gave Ted a furious look. Laurence’s smooth face remained innocent of expression.

      ‘OK,’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Big smiles. Happiest day of your life.’

      They all smiled, with varying degrees of artificiality and success.

      ‘Terrific,’ lied Nigel Thick.

      ‘In fact, Ted,’ said Liz, ‘we already have one of your companion sets in our drawing room.’

      ‘Oh! In your “drawing room”! Well well!’ said Ted. He added, somewhat archly: ‘I trust it’s giving satisfactory service.’

      ‘Actually the tongs have buckled,’ said Laurence.

      ‘OK,’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Nice dignified one. Nice and solemn. Four pillars of local society, linked by wedlock.’

      They found being dignified and solemn easier than smiling.

      ‘Great! Tremendous! Magnificent!’

      ‘I’ll bring you a replacement,’ said Ted. ‘Gratis. Have no fear.’

      ‘Ted!’ hissed Rita. ‘Don’t talk business at functions. Mr Rodenhurst doesn’t talk about dental appointments at functions.’

      ‘OK,’ said the future Barry Precious classlessly. ‘Now change partners. Symbolize that you’re all one big happy family.’

      The two couples changed places.

      ‘Actually, I think you’re both due for a check-up,’ said Laurence smoothly, his face a mask. ‘I’ll get my girl to send you one of our cards.’

      ‘OK,’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Arms round each other. Nice and friendly. No inhibitions.’

      Liz’s arm went round Ted, and he felt his bottom being stroked. Had he imagined it? No! There it was again, and a quick playful nip. He was terrified. Of course his bottom, by its very nature, was round the back, out of sight of people he was facing, but still …! Liz’s arm was round his waist now. One finger stroked him very gently. It was too small a gesture to be seen by the assembled guests. But still …! He could feel the sweat running down his back.

      Laurence put his arm round Rita with fastidious distaste. He looked like the leader of a nation embracing the wife of a hated rival at the end of a conference at which only a meaningless, bland communiqué had been issued.

      ‘Relax!’ said Nigel Thick. ‘Let it all hang out.’

      Laurence

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